


You've GOT to Be Shitting Me

by Addleton



Series: The Wash Porn Saga [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon Compliant, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash, sargington
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7630099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Addleton/pseuds/Addleton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simmons craps out Wash porn.</p><p>Nothing will ever be the same again.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Now with 800% more color! And more descriptions!</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've GOT to Be Shitting Me

**Author's Note:**

> All hail vacations. They make things like these possible.
> 
> You will need to have custom work skins enabled to see all the fun colors and formatting.

“Why don’t you just turn it off?” Doc asked as the fax machine screamed shrilly for the ten-gajillionth time that morning (Simmons had been counting).

Grif sighed and slouched more heavily against the wall. “The last time he tried that, he was crapping hamster bedding for a month.”

“Oooh.” Donut winced in sympathy. “Have you tried adding more fiber to your diet?”

“Paper _IS_ FIBER!” Simmons screeched. He was at page 69 of 1337, and his wireless connection with the ancient phone line kept stuttering between “painfully slow” and “nearly nonexistent”.

“What even is this shit anyway?” Grif picked up a page from the floor and scanned it with his eyes. He froze. Scanned the page again. Turned a little green.

“What?” asked Doc, looking between Grif, Simmons, and Donut. “What is it?”

Donut clapped his hands. “I bet it’s a lemon~!”

“Grif!” Tucker strode into the kitchen, his body language practically screaming offended. “Have you been holding out on me? This entire time? I thought we were bros!”

Grif dropped to the floor and began hastily compiling the pages in numerical order. “Shut up, Tucker. I have no idea whose this is, but this is some seriously sick shit.”

“Well—” Grif’s asshole friend glanced over at where Simmons stood in the Center of Shame (And Attention) “—it is coming out of Simmons’ ass.”

“HEY! What’s that supposed to mean?!” Simmons knew what it meant (he wasn't stupid; if anything, he was the smartest guy around), but Tucker was hardly the most tactful trooper at the best of times, so Simmons held out hope that the teal soldier had meant something less offensive.

That hope died as soon as Tucker shrugged and replied, “Just saying, dude, you’re the one crapping out a crapton of questionable content here.”

Simmons slouched, crossed his arms over his chest, and tried not to cry. “It’s not my fault! I have no control over it!” He hugged himself tighter and mumbled, “I think someone gave me a virus.”

“And that’s why it’s important to use protection!”

“Shut up, Doc,” Simmons said, more miserable than angry.

“So, what is it?” Tucker asked, moseying along to stand in front of the orange fatass.

“Porn,” replied Grif.

“Sweet,” said Tucker.

Grif just shook his head. “No. Not sweet. Whatever the fuck the opposite of sweet is.”

“Simmons?” Doc shuffled over next to where Simmons stood, speaking quietly so that the others wouldn’t overhear. “Is there something you want to talk about? Privately? Medical professional to patient?”

“You’re not even a real doctor!” Simmons hissed back, trying to keep his volume down below default screechiness levels so that the rasp of papers sliding across the floor would cover the sounds of their (no doubt embarrassing) conversation.

“Now now! Mental health professionals have been working for a very long time to dispel that stigma. I assure you, we have firsthand experience in dealing with mental breakdowns!”

“Who is this _WE?!_ ”

Doc cackled. “FOOL! Who else?”

In a near instant and insane flurry of pages, the printing stopped.

“Grif, help.”

“Not now, Simmons. I’m busy cleaning up your mess. For once. Be grateful because I am never doing this again.”

Simmons fast-walked away from Doc, being sure to put a Grif and Tucker between him and the purple medic before cowering in a corner on the other side of the kitchen. No one noticed.

Donut huffed, bored from just standing around, and picked up a page. “What even is this?” he asked as his eyes zipped over the words. “Oooh! _Zesty!_ ”

Tucker walked over to read over Donut’s shoulder. “Ho-oly shit. It’s Wash porn.”

Grif turned greener as Doc picked up another page and cackled even more evilly than usual. His voice was deep with malicious glee as he added, “Not just Wash porn. It’s the kissing commanders!” He chuckled.

“Wait wait wait!” said Tucker holding his hands up defensively. “You don’t mean—”

“Oh, yes! _Somebody_ here has a thing for yellow-striped shotguns and painting canyons _purple_. MWAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Tucker and Grif looked at each other. Donut squeed.

“This scene is just _too cute!_ ”

Tucker swiped the page from Donut’s pink-gloved hands.

“Hey! I wasn’t finished!”

“I don’t want to see you finish!” Tucker shot back, scrambling for the pages Grif had yet to gather, heedless of the order.

Donut crossed his arms over his chest and whined, lower lip sticking out in a textbook pout, “But I was just getting to the good bits.”

“From the looks of it,” Grif said dourly, “there’s a foot and a half of ‘good bits’.”

“Bow chicka— NO!” Tucker snatched the pages Doc had collected and ignored the resulting villainous grumbling.

“Grif!” The aqua asshole turned to the orange one. “Give me those!”

Grif handed the pages over. “Do I want to know what you’re going to do with them?”

Tucker grinned, his dark eyes sparkling even more than usual. “I’m going to give this to Wash.”

Simmons spluttered, horrified to his very core. “What?! Why?!”

“Uh...” Grif slowly crab-walked away until his back was up against the wall next to Simmons. “Do you you have a deathwish?”

“Nah.” Tucker waved them off. “I’m just going to get a little revenge.”

“For what?” asked Doc.

“For burning my entire porn collection. Later, suckers!”

And with that, Tucker swaggered out of the kitchen, Simmons wishing all the while that his rocket launcher wasn’t locked away in the armory.

* * *

“So, what do you think?” **Operation: Mortify Wash** was a bust, but there was still hope for **Operation: Identify Kinkshamee**.

Wash’s face was completely smooth in the “I am a badass Freelancer and have complete control of all my emotions” way. He looked up at Tucker, steepled his hands on his desk, and replied, “I don’t think Donut wrote this.”

“No way! What makes you think that?”

“The sex scenes were written by someone inexperienced, and from what you’ve told me of your shared time in the desert…”

“Yeah, okay, got it. Say no more! But if Donut didn’t write it, who did?”

Wash rested his chin on his fingers. “Well, we can immediately rule out Carolina, Caboose, and Grif.”

“I’ve seen Simmons’ writing before, and it’s nothing like this, so he’s out too. Doc maybe?”

Wash shook his head. “Too much focus on violence. Not enough fools.”

“Then that only leaves— Oh. Oh my god.” Tucker started laughing, clutching his stomach as he sank to the floor. He laughed for a good five minutes as Wash watched on, face still carefully neutral. Wiping away his tears, Tucker sat up and continued the conversation. “It makes so much sense though. He’s a fucking _robot_ , so _of course_ he never gets any, and he’s _always_ watching those sappy telenovelas. But, holy shit, I never would’ve thought Lopez would try to _write_ one!”

Wash hummed noncommittally and pulled open a drawer. After a few seconds of rooting around, the former Freelancer pulled out a red pen.

Tucker sat up straighter and _grinned_. “No fucking way.”

Wash just smirked and set to work.

* * *

It was a quiet day in the office. Too quiet. Sarge knew something was up, which was why he was completely unsurprised when Washington came waltzing in, a file folder held in hand, his helmet off for once.

“I came across one of your Top Secret files in my office,” the Blue said, giving the file a wave.

“What.” Sarge didn’t believe that for a second.

The former Freelancer placed the folder on his desk. A _BLUE_ folder. Stamped with a very bold, red **TOP SECRET** in the center.

Sarge sat back in his chair, legs on the desk and arms crossed over his chest. “You sure it’s one of mine? All my folders are red.” The better to hide the **TOP SECRET** labels of his actual Top Secret files.

Sarge saw the corner of Washington’s mouth twitch with a suppressed smile. “I’m sure, Sarge.”

As soon as Washington left his office, Sarge squinted at the file, suspicion-senses tingling. He opened the folder carefully, expecting some sort of pop-up to pop out and punch him in the face (a classic practical joke he had pulled on rival team leaders many a time during his military career).

He was not expecting to see a rubric, neatly filled-in with precise handwriting, a final grade of **D-** and a star-shaped “ You Tried!” sticker in the upper right corner.

Outraged, Sarge ripped the rubric off to reveal the first page of his magnum opus, finding it defiled by pen marks of many colors. Particularly insulting were the comments in blue, though the orange came in very close second, with the purple, yellow, and red remarks only slightly not offensive by virtue of their coloration.

Every single page of his manuscript was annotated. Every. Single. One.

With a deep inhale of red-blooded rage, Sarge flipped back to the very first page and began to read Washington’s commentary. Most of the comments were of the “This is where I would have shot you” variety, too many were of the “This is PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE” type (some of them even included diagrams), there were a lot of “There are how many hands now?”, and the worst were the “The word choice here was so ridiculous, I cried from laughing” with corresponding tear stains marring the page.

But there were also the “I liked this part” comments, the “Do I really say that?” questions, the “This was actually really sweet” remarks, and the “This gives me ideas” asides (usually on descriptions of training exercises and setups).

When he reached the end of his manuscript, Sarge gave the rubric another look and found it to be a concise summary of the major issues in his work, with a number of _genuinely helpful_ suggestions for improving the finer points of wordcraft (particularly his spelling).

The Red Leader sat back in his chair, feet back atop the desk, stunned into silence. Two things quickly became apparent to him:

Washington had read his work.

Washington had _liked_ his work.

Sarge could feel a grin growing across his face as he considered the implications of the lattermost point. With a cackle, he busted out the old typewriter and whiteout and began to write.

Wooing Washington was no longer a matter of fantasy.


End file.
